


Reverie

by All_This_Wildness



Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: Blowjobs, F/M, Oneshot, Sam is Healing, Soft Blowjobs, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, amateur oral, gagging, let them live, no bottom surgery here, shockingly fluffy, trans Fragile, trans Sam Porter Bridges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22701988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_This_Wildness/pseuds/All_This_Wildness
Summary: She bandages his wounds in the most roundabout of ways.(Oneshot written because they’re soft, and I need soft from time to time.)
Relationships: Sam Porter Bridges/Fragile
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	Reverie

The gloves made it easier. It was different, the supple nature of them similar to skin, but without the pocked imperfections that spoke of individuality. Of...human-ness, the lived-in wear and tear of years of joy and suffering. 

They made it more difficult though, as well. Sam couldn’t feel a strong heartbeat—the key feature that allowed him to discern the living from the not-living. The physical and warm, from the liquid grasp of something dragging him forcibly into the guts of the earth. 

Thankfully, the fingers in his mouth were forgiving, and each time his nostrils flared with the consumption of too much breath, as panic swelled tight in the ample space of his lungs, those same digits would press downward enough to feel the thump of a heart past the slick material. 

“Just me.”

_ Just her.  _

Right. 

Counting pulses had been a distraction technique Lucy had taught him. One to nine, exhale for three, inhale for three, exhale the last three. 

A flare of his nostrils, and the best of nine over—and he was back into it, with his quiet fervor. 

Fragile’s other hand was carding through his hair. The first time they’d done this, he’d denied her that. Not ready. Too many points too soon. Now, however, he found he could stomach it. After all, it wasn’t skin-to-skin, and without his superstition hanging around his neck as some sort of albatross—guilty metaphor of a metaphor—he managed. 

He managed, with soft sounds, little noises that came out half-choked to start, then more freely as time progressed. Tenor in timbre, less husky than the growl of his usual speaking voice, but altogether beautiful as they filled the space in the hollow of the private room. 

The cot, of course, seemed like the most natural place, and so it was there Fragile sat. She’d found him newly showered, a common occurrence these days, as she often jumped into his shelter to check on him. To maintain. A degree of care that he’d grown...unused to. 

_ You look like hell, Sam Porter Bridges. _

And she hadn’t been wrong. 

Even without the decoration of blood and mud and tar smeared across his face, he looked a goddamn nightmare, and he knew it. He’d been  _ living _ in an accursed dream for too many days now. Someone else’s dreams. He had too few of his own. 

She’d prescribed therapy. On sight. And therapy, much to his chagrin, was touch. 

So she sat on the bed, and he knelt like the useless, battered dog he often felt himself to be. He knelt, and she prized open his lips with little to no force. 

Her fingers plied deeper now, in their fucking of his mouth. Not just rolling upon the crags of his gums and teeth, not just playing with the muscle of his under-utilized tongue. She pressed back, and back, and back again in a slow swipe of an index finger, until she met his gag reflex.

She pushed past it, and hushed him, as though that might quell his shuddering, and the jolt of strong, bruised shoulders. “Sshhhh, Sam—...take it. You can.”

He did, as the sour twist of stomach acid tried to rise. He swallowed it down. Met her eyes. And felt his cunt ache between his legs, under the lightest of fabrics that made up his casual wear. 

It caused his thighs to shift, and when Fragile at last tugged her fingers out and him breathe, he enthused himself with clenching them tight to test what kind of rigidity or moisture was building therein. 

Wetness, to whatever degree his body would allow. The ache of a clit between soft folds. All of this, shoved with maddening proximity to the material of his slacks. 

And how was  **she** doing?

Sam tried to allow his eyes to stray. She didn’t talk about her body much—her ill-fated encounter with timefall had seen to that, but when he’d learned of the common nature of their being, and the cock she kept between those lovely legs…

Her hand rested beneath his chin, and brought blue eyes back up to rest upon her own, her smile feathery and faint and pink and perfect. 

“Not yet.” She chided, and it was indeed chiding. The reprimand slid through his spine like a strand of piano wire, which snapped tight. The slightest sting was felt, but Sam felt his head bob in the most mild of nods. 

Not yet. He could wait...it was always better if he did. 

Distracted by eyes, lovely eyes, he hardly noted how Fragile’s hand curled, and the lovely curvature of her thumb slipped back into his waiting, open mouth, plundered it without him ever having to give permission. “You’re doing so much better, Sam. You’re growing. You’re healing. Do you see it?”

His brunette brow furrowed. No. No he didn’t.

Her head nodded downward slightly. 

What he hadn’t realized, was that his hands, usually clasped in no small amount of anxiety and wringing below, had come up to rest on the planes of Fragile’s thighs. 

He stared at them, at the silly x’s and skull that he’d hammered into his skin as a teenager. Fragile worked his mouth with her thumb, as he pressed harder into those limbs. Leaned into it, rather than away. 

It was...nice. Better than nice. It was very,  _ very _ good. 

And the next sound that came out of him wasn’t a whine, wasn’t one of those quiet strangled gasps. No, now he moaned for the woman, and when he did, her thigh twitched beneath his grasp. 

She’d found him, and not just in a moment of apparent lust, but precisely when she was needed. 

Instinct demanded he suck on the digit in his mouth, and he did so now with vigor, drawing tight on it every time it pulled out, then letting it press within with ease, to pinken his lips and gloss them over with his own spit. A bit escaped, dribbled into his beard, tracked down the finer lines of his throat, dampened his shirt. 

It was a perfect balance, an equilibrium split between the two of them, that benefited both. He got to flex this oral fixation, received therapy. And Fragile…

He supposed it felt good to do good. And if anyone deserved to feel like they were doing the right thing…

The thought made Bridges shift. Made him grunt. She’d just been plying in with two fingers, about to test his throat again, when he shook his head. There was a pause, and then a removal. 

Sam cleared his throat. 

“Let me.”

Tenor gone. Grit back. Low and even, perfectly sane. His hands squeezed on both of her legs. Insisting. 

Silence reigned, interrupted only by the sound of Lou’s pod hooked into the wall, as well as the constant hum of the lights above. From the look on the blonde’s face, she didn’t quite grasp his meaning. At least, until he dragged his eyes down her body again, and rested them with no small amount of hunger on the line of her sex, clearly set in arousal, outlined in her slacks as he pushed her thighs apart. Wide. 

Staring there, lips above and below wet and hungry, he repeated, softer. 

“ _ Let me _ .”

The woman contemplated, and as she did, ran her teeth against the flesh of her inner lip. 

And then, with a slow, firm drag of her hand, brought him to her clothed groin. 

This time, instinct had to be fought, instincts that he hated, instinct borne from fear and trauma. Immediately, his first thought was to try and shove away, to bear himself elsewhere. It would have been easy, and...perhaps a bit kind. 

Stubbornness rose in him. Composure returned, and Bridges floated away whatever reservation he had. Yes. He’d have this. She’d have him. He was committed, and even the man really put his mind into a commitment, there was no driving him back. 

So, his voice sounded, dragged across the coals in a low, even groan, as he mouthed what thickness he could purchase upon, as he felt just what taming him did to her. 

Fragile kept him. Physically yes, with a drag of that brunette mop, but he felt held in so many more ways than one. 

His heated breath fogged her trousers, painted them with dew. With the paint applied, he couldn’t help but draw his tongue through it. He couldn’t help but delight in the way what lay beneath that fabric twitched with his explorations. Throbbed. Even more so, he loved how she gasped with the slightest parting of those small, but full pinkened lips. 

Sam’s own lips, above and below, twitched in tandem. 

And then he was unfastening her, carefully pulling out her thickened sex, watching her cock bob before him, full and luscious. Not monstrous. Not minuscule. Utterly beautiful. 

Trouble was, he’d never done this before; his eyes seemed to echo the sentiment, and hers, more blue than his own, seemed to ring with quiet laughter. He didn’t feel mocked, and smiled in return. 

“Kiss it. Lick it. It’s me.”

_ Her. _

Bridges exhaled. Inhaled. Counted to three. Counted the pulse as he lay his mouth careful against the side of her engorged dick. 

Pornographic, the sound above, the mewl, and his eyes widened. That was so different than the sounds he used to lick out of Lucy’s tender folds. He did it again, she echoed him, and the porter sensed the stirrings of addiction deep within. His tongue graced her, lapped down to the neatly trimmed greyed curls at the base, fluttered kisses back above, til he reached the crown of her. 

Sam huffed out more heated breath. Slow, easy, his hand made its way to her shaft, and drew the sheathing skin down from the tip, exposing the swollen, pinkened warmth, much the same color as her lips, her tender nipples that were currently hidden away. 

He dragged his bottom lip against it. Let it fold in to rub against the flat planes of his teeth, but not the sharper edges—Bridges was well aware that she wouldn’t shatter or break, but God...she deserved bliss. She deserved this. 

And maybe...just maybe...so did he. 

The thought unfurled in his chest, a king protea long extinct flourishing into full bloom. Wild and beautiful, a thing long coveted. 

It took the touch of those earlier gloves to bring him back. He smiled and opened his mouth to apologize. Instead, he found his mouth gently filled, his jaw bidden open. 

And instruction, soft as ever, from above. “When I press in...you’ll allow me. When I pull out, you suck.” Commands loosed gently like unto goose down, settling around his shoulders like a mantle. 

The first few times, she’d quietly request a confirmation of understanding. Now there was no need. 

The most surprising thing was how warm she was, nestled into his mouth. Second was the bud of pre-spending that dragged onto his tongue, made him curious with its flavor, made his brow knit. But he listened. He behaved. For her. 

In and out, plaintive moans above drawing him on, as she fucked his mouth with something so much more intimate than fingers. Soon enough, Sam had caught her rhythm, and used it himself. And though she first hesitated at the hold of his hands on her hips, soon it was allowed, and the bob of his head was doing the bulk of the work. After all, he knew arthritis had settled in some places, and he didn’t want her to suffer for his lack of seasoning. 

Deeper. He could take it. 

Tears stung in his eyes, tears she must have liked, from the next shudder. The next sound. It was deeper now, breaching the furthest reaches of his mouth, dipping into the hollow at the back and urging on that reflex to gag once more. 

He took it. And she smiled. She cradled the back of his neck and held him there with pliant, smooth material. 

Bridges’s efforts were amateur, of course. His jaw hurt a bit. His mouth, a reddened mess. Drool everywhere, overcompensating for his lack of experience. And yet, he couldn’t be more relaxed, more tolerant of what was being done to him. 

The man felt like a kitten held tight, scruffed between her thighs, as she rode into his mouth again and again. Her voice rang in praise—even formed words. But he couldn’t...he couldn’t hear, and he didn’t mind. It didn’t matter. 

What mattered was the smell of her, as he found his nose pressed to the firmness of her belly, when she’d made her way fully in. The taste every time she drew backward. The bitterness of the occasional rise of bile that he forced back down. All too much, and somehow not enough—

Until her foot, still booted, wedged with insistence between his legs. 

He sobbed. 

He straddled her leg with a little maneuvering. It wouldn’t be enough, considering his quavering pussy was still clothed. But she considered. She cared. And the firmness of that perfect, imperfect leg was the ointment he needed. 

No wrinkle mattered. No enforced aging could make this moment dull in his mind. She was Fragile, and he was her Sam. 

She was quickening now, and he finally managed to look up again, to see her reactions as she rabbited in quick, hurried thrusts. It was an odd thing, to see her demand something, especially pleasure for herself. The porter, the subdued repatriate found himself drunk upon it...perhaps the mingled blend of precum and saliva assisted. Made it easier. 

‘Soon,’ her mouth moved but no sound came, as she ached. Her thighs visibly flexed, strained in the prelude to orgasm. ‘Close.’

So close, from the feel. From the rocking. From the hammering of her not-fragile heart. 

Sam reached for her with one hand, forcibly dragging her in by her hip to breach him deep, the other fondling her balls below. She wouldn’t break, and he wouldn’t lose her if he touched her, he wouldn’t lose her as she fell apart and came together. Close needed to be closer. Close needed to be now. 

He asked, and she complied. 

The feel of her shooting down his throat he found to be too alien a sensation, so he pulled back, trembling, to try and drink her in his mouth instead, suckling. Swallowing what he could. A bit escaped his mouth, but he didn’t notice, didn’t see beyond her gorgeous face, the way the artificial lighting haloed just beyond her fair blonde hair. 

She only held him a moment more. And then he was released. 

Sam sank back onto his ass. Enough was enough, and as blissful as he had been watching her reactions, and for how much his cunt ached...he could now tell from the tingling in the handprint-shaped bruises, in the way he was gently shaking...he needed a break. Fragile had known better than him, though, and so with humility he swiped a palm across his mouth and beard, and whispered, “Thanks.”

Fragile had quickly concealed herself again, body flushed. Someday, he’d be well enough to see the rest of her beyond those things she’d shown. She’d be well enough to let him. His therapy and therapist, clad in liquid black. 

Her eyes spoke her laughter before it sounded, but it was warm, the sweetest music to ever fill the private room. Down she came, and drew him up, and kissed him upon the forehead. 

“Why are you thanking me, Sam Porter Bridges?” Teasing now, as delight danced through her tone, warm as a hearth he’d thought lost. 

“Uhm.” A moment of hesitation. “...You...care.”

She thought about that, then nodded, the movement small. “I care. You needn’t thank me for caring.”

His grunt perhaps wasn’t satisfactory. Her kiss on the lips was. Their first. Timid. Warm. 

“People should be in the habit of thanking  **you** .”

Sam wanted to shrug away—pride came before every stumble and fall. Instead, he lay his head in her lap. Instead, he closed his eyes, and revered her presence. The soft hiss of her curative oils poured over old, old scars. 

Fragile knew when to talk. He loved that about her. And now, they both selected silence of voice, and the whirr of the mechanical idlings around them. 

Nothing else was needed when everything settled between them. 

**Author's Note:**

> :’)
> 
> Find me @clint_theo_leo on twitter


End file.
